Thursday, September 29, 2011

1. What do you think of reading aloud/being read to? Does it bring back memories of your childhood? Your children’s childhood?2. Does this affect the way you feel about audio books?3. Do you now have times when you read aloud or are read to?

I loved being read to, until I figured out that if I read it on my own...I could read faster. Occasionally, I don't mind being read to, if the person reading is a good reader--pauses in the right places, understands the vocabulary, etc.

Audiobooks are different for me, because the folks reading are generally good readers and sometimes with delightful accents that enhance the story. I read aloud sometimes when I am testing out a character's voice for a story I'm working on, or if I'm babysitting. ~_^

Sadly, I don't have anyone reading to me on a regular basis--lol--so I can't comment on the last part. Fun question!

That wonderfully delicious, delectable and delightful season--Fall. Or Autumn, if you prefer. I love it all, watching the leaves change to all four colors, being able to breathe fresh air without sneezing myself to death from allergies and of course, the slightly overcast skies that make it perfect writing weather for the happy little writer self in me.

Many favorite things come with fall, NaNoWriMo for one (Psst, it's 32 days away as of right now!). Pumpkin pie, (I tend to make them in batches of four), Pumpkin Pie muffins (They come with cream cheese icing, ever had one? Absolutely delish!), and of course, this week's letter, S for SOUP!

I love my soup.

In fall, it's the best kind of changing-weather food and it's so easy to take everywhere. Not to mention, if you make a big ol' pot of something, you can keep on adding stuff. It's fun and it's yummy. I have a super simple vegetable broth soup I love to make for when those sniffles start coming around (as they sometimes do with the colder weather *sigh*), it's tasty and quite quick.

Pop it in a pot on the stove and start it out bubbling, then turn it down to simmer. Check the potatoes to be sure they're cooked. It generally doesn't take too long. I'm one of those "a dash of this and a dash of that" kind of a cook, so specifics are kind of eyeballed here.

But it's kind of close to idiot-proof, as my brothers would say, so no worries. The worst you can do is overcook the potatoes and if you do that, then simply pour it in a blender and blend it up. The result will be a light, cream of potato-styled soup and you can add some milk to make it creamier (or some canned cream of mushroom soup!), if you like. ^_^

Add any other seasonings to taste, I sometimes put in some onion or garlic and whatnot. It's a basic, light soup for if you're feeling kind of blah and just want some nice tastiness on a cold day. ^_^

Well, duh, I'm sure you can already figure that out without my having to bore you with something completely insignificant and trivial as repeating it, but still...I missed it.

I have a really good excuse. :D Wanna hear it? No? Oh. I was gonna tell you anyway. Oh well...oh, fine. Here we go.

Originally, I wanted to create a Vlog-based cooking tutorial on how to make a rustic Indian flatbread, (my chief staple of Indian cooking!), known as Roti. There are several different kinds, and I was going to focus on the basic one, but in all honesty, every time I am making roti, the very last thing I am interested in is filming or explaining it.

I just wanna make it and eat it and not necessarily in that order either. (I'm not going to explain that...)

Anyhow, I had two alternatives for R and I'm pulling one of 'em out.

R stands for Rawhide, that old black and white cowboy show starting young Clint Eastwood. ^_^ It's fun, it's really-old (the fights are hilarious!), but it's got some interesting messages in there. While I generally don't watch much TV at all, (I am loyal to my favorite shows and that's about it!), I've picked up Rawhide in recent weeks.

One, I like horses. Cowboys ride horses. Check.Two, I like interesting plots. Rawhide has predictable plots, but interesting ways of going about them. Check.Three, I like it when things have a point. Most of the time, Rawhide has a point. Check!

So yay, here we go!The episodes I've seen have been black and white, though I'm sure there's color to be had in there somewhere. Starting from the left going clockwise, you can see the trail boss, Gil Favor, Ramrod (second in command) Rowdy Yates (aka, Young Clint Eastwood!), the scout and tracker, Pete Nolan, the pesky, ornery cook-doc-fix-it guy, Wishbone.

It's a fun show.

Look it up some time if you need a laugh and can stand to sit through some black and white. ^_^

And hopefully I'll get that VLog together sometime. It'd sure be a load of fun to put it together.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Do you carry books with you when you’re out and about in the world?And, do you ever try to hide the covers?

I used to take my library books with me (back when I actually went to the library rather obsessively). I don't think I've ever hid a cover of a book I read, except maybe, for the time I read The Girl With Silver Eyes, as I was in the company of certain folks who didn't think people should have silver eyes. I always read mystery books in public--and now my e-reader solves the issue if I worry about covers. Which, actually, I don't anymore, because it doesn't matter to me what folks think about what I read. ^_^

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Author's Ramblings: I meant to post this for Friday Fiction, but I actually didn't finish it in time. But I had an idea that turned the story around from just a rambly, country drabble, so I went ahead and finished it up. I ought to save it for the weekend, I'm sure, LOL. But knowing me, I'll end up writing something new by then. So here goes! It's a snippet of prompt fiction to the prompt "Purple Ribbons". Meant to be a bit mysterious and happy-sad. Enjoy the read!

“It was just a…a…a that.” Marie waved her bejeweled
arms in the air. “What Gips said.”

“A scrape?” Sheldon shook his head. “No, I think it
was a little worse than that.” He patted her head, his lingering fingers
tugging on the satiny hair ribbons. “You almost died on me, Marie.”

“It didn’t even hurt.” She ducked away from his
hand. “and Gips could’ve fixed me. He’s good like that. I wasn’t broken.”

“You were broken.” Sheldon ‘s hand settled on her
shoulder with deliberate firmness. “and that was a stupid and dangerous thing
to do.”

Solemn grey eyes fixed on the frustrated soldier. “I’m
your shield, Sheldon. That’s what I’m supposed to do.” Her small voice held the
faintest hint of softness. “And I’m really bored, can we go now?”

The front door to the cabin banged open and a husky
fellow stumbled out onto the porch, a stick of jerky in his mouth while trying
to wrestle his foot into one high-laced boot. “Sheldon? Ah, there you are. We
gotta go. On call.”

“Now?” Sheldon straightened, pushing his glasses up
his nose with one crooked middle finger. “They called everyone?”

“They called us.” The fellow said, simply. He
plopped down on a nearby rocking chair and began to lace up the combat boots. “And
we’re going. Got a problem with that?”

“No sir.”

“Then get moving, soldier!”

Sheldon bobbed his head in reply and extended a hand
to the now bouncing girl beside him. “Yes, sir.”

“Yeah, we’re going.” He squeezed her hand and
hurried through the front door. The cabin was a flurry of activity as the rest
of the extraction group began to suit up. A jumble of chatter filled the air as
the young children running about, came to stand beside their respective
fighters.

Marie let go of his hand to run and join them as
they formed a circle in the center of the room. In a minute, the Captain joined
them and they formed a second circle around the young children.

“Ready?” Marie called out.

The little heads nodded in answer.

“In the morning, the sun is shining, in the
nighttime, the moon sings all the time.” She broke off, humming as the freckle-faced
little boy beside her picked up the tune and continued on with a new verse.

As Marie joined in the chorus, a faint lilac glow
began to envelop her.

Sheldon stepped up closer, resting one hand on each
of her shoulders. He closed his eyes as the light grew bright and a sudden
flash of warmth washed over him.

When he opened his eyes again, a heavy, flexible armor
covered him from head to toe. A pair of bent, boomerang blades rested in his
hands, a decent, light, weight. A familiar shade of purple gleamed in the
daylight streaming through the cabin windows.

Sheldon half-smiled. He threw one hand up in the air
to join his fellow soldiers in a victory cheer. He knew the day had just gotten
longer and the danger he’d dive into would be hours in the making.

But the faint tune lingering in the back of his mind
was a perfect reminder that things would turn out alright. They usually did.

Thanks, Marie.

He heard her laugh in his head.

Don’t thank me yet. Just get moving. Did I mention
that I’m really, really bored?

This time, he laughed.

2011 (c) Sara Harricharan

Ending note: And yes, if you're confused, then Marie=living armor. She's a girl with the talent to shapeshift and one of her shifts is actually a heavy-duty set of armor. She's one of seven kids who can do this and works with Sheldon, her 'fighter'. Snippet of a possible NaNo idea I had this past week. I hope you enjoyed the read! Please leave a comment if you feel so inclined. I love the feedback! ^_^

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Have you ever finished a book and loved it so much you went right back and started re-reading it again?(And obviously, if so, we want titles!)

Tamora Pierce's "Beka Cooper".

I read it. Reread it and carried it around with me for about a week, before I could stand to stop rereading some of my favorite passages and moments. Beka is my fave literary hero for a strong FMC in a medieval time-setting. (Not to mention she has a cat. A talking cat!) ^_^

Why--Because multitasking is fun. It's tastes good too. No, wait, that's the tea talking. I like tea. It tastes good. I'm drinking it because I like it. I'm making lists 'cause that's what you do when you drink tea. Everything else is just happening on its own in the background. Honest!

How--with my eyes closed.

2011 (c) S. Harricharan. All Rights Reserved.

Ha!

Just kidding. No, it's very simple. Put the tea to make, put clothes in washing machine. Pick up garbage bags from laundry room on way back to room. Swap bags for notebooks. Come back. Drink tea. Laugh. Write a blog post about it.

Tada!

Erm, yeah. if you're feeling cheated in regards to a long and terribly witty blog post, my deepest apologies. There's just a hundred and one bajillion things I ought to be doing right now. *sigh* But you are loyal, my dear readers and so here is your treat.

Q is for Quote--many lovely funny ones, many interesting thinky ones and some that just kind of fit.

“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”- Mark Twain

My favorite Sherlock Holmes quote--well, if you've ever heard me say "Oysters" out loud, then yes, you know that it is: "Oysters! The world is overrun by oysters!" in which Sherlock faked illness to lure Watson nearby to capture a murderer in the act. Best quote ever!

Now then, if you don't mind this post, it sure doesn't matter. If I mind, then we have issues to deal with. *adds to inbox* Yes. Thankfully, I have no issues with it. I hope the same for you.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

In remembrance of 9-11, for everything. For those who lost loved ones and those who we will always remember. I have nothing to say, because there is nothing to say. I remember. I feel. It hurts. You remember. You feel. It hurts.

Remember. I remember, because I cannot forget. I don't know that I will forget.I don't know that I want to.Sometimes I think I want to.Because it hurts so much.Then I think I don't.Because it hurts so much. Life like a shadow When the sun is smiling for A minuteBut the light lasts Forever InsideAlways.Remember for what was lostRemember for what we haveLiving in their memoryLearning from what they gaveLearning from who they wereLearning from what they leftRemember because it mattersRemember because they matterMemories are what I haveMemories are what I'll keepI'll never stop making themI'll never stop sharing themI will always let them be A special part of me

I don't own a soapbox. I never have. In fact, I had to rent this one just for this post, so do be warned. It's a bit used and my feet hurt already, but it doesn't look too bad, so here we go! ^_^

Something really ticked me off today. It's actually a very simple kind of something. I tried explaining my annoyance to my dear mother and her response prompted this post. I have decided the best thing to do would be to write it out of my system.

Of course, if I'm going to all the trouble of writing it out, I might as well turn it into a blog post, right? Hmmmm.

Don't worry, I won't subject you to some raving rant about how I think the golden world exists because pens and paper don't constantly argue with each other. But I will make one point based on my own experiences and a few random facts. I say a few random facts because I do read quite a bit and sometimes it takes a couple years for what I read to settle into the necessary places in my mind.

This is one of those times.

My opinion is this: a writer is not an artist.

By all means, do disagree if you like, but please, share with me why exactly you are disagreeing. I do not mean that a writer cannot be artistic or that two forms of art cannot reside in the same human being, I am simply stating that in my mind, as far as I understand, a writer is not an artist. They can be artistic. They can be writers and artists, but a writer is not an artist. Those are two different labels for two distinctly wonderful things. I don't believe they should be carelessly muddled together like that.

P is for please don't insult the writer.

In the years I have been writing up to now, it has taken me quite some time to accept the title of a writer. I've been writing long enough to hold the title, yet I still hesitate to label myself that way for a few reasons.

Writing is hard work. Good writing takes a significant amount of work. Really great writing is easy reading and easy reading is gut-wrenching, soul-stirring writing. Note that I said writing, not content. The actual message or story can be as light and fluffy as you like, that doesn't mean that writing it was anywhere near easy.

This isn't to say that I am not a hard-worker or I won't put out the amount of effort and quality that is necessary and expected from a writer. It means that when I do hold myself to the title, I do so in all seriousness and sincerity. But sometimes, I am too lazy, too bored or too something-or-the-other to do what a truly dedicated writer would do. I post unedited snippets, I write without proofreading and I tear pages out of notebooks. In those moments, I am not being a writer, I am merely being Sara. (A rather moody version of Sara, but still).

Before this post takes on a mind of its own, I'm going to get to the point.

My annoyance came from a conversation I overheard in regards to art and writing. It went something along the lines of "Writing is just like art. It's the same thing. Writers and artists are the same. Writing is easier. If I had to be an artist, I'd be a writer because it's easier."

Ouch.

It wasn't so much that it was said, but the way in which it was said.

My initial reaction went something like "Oh really?" followed immediately by "and what exactly do you write, my dear?". However, my mother raised me to be polite and all potentially snappish remarks remained in the darkened caverns in the depths of my brain where the voices in my head are free take whatever liberties keep them happy.

So, here's my point.

I just said that writing isn't easy. I didn't mean that it's so hard that you have to lose your mind over it (though that certainly is possible!). How hard and easy it is depends on the writer and their skill level. I'm sure we all agree that there are some excellent writers out there and some equally not-so-excellent ones. When you say something was or is hard in relation to writing, please oh please do be careful.

Please don't insult the writer.

For me, easy reading is hard writing--very hard writing. Sometimes I feel lucky when writing is easier than I first thought or a first draft isn't as rough as I expected. I am aware that some of my writing habits are entirely unique to my own creative process and is reflected in the things I write and the manner in which I speak of them.

But writing is just like other normal things--you have to do them. You have to put forward the effort. If you're artistically inclined, art may seem 'easier' but then Thomas Mann reminds, "a writer is a person for whom writing is twice as difficult as it is for other people."

I energetically spend half of my writing days endeavoring to prove him wrong. The other half are reminders that he is more right than I care to admit. Sometimes it feels like the more I know of writing, the harder it becomes. I miss days when I didn't know anything and telling a story was just to see smiles in the audience.

Have you ever seen an artist at work? Their hands move across a blank page and the most intense look of concentration settles over their entire body. Color is breathed into existence, a world is painted out of their minds. From the depths of their God-given talent, they are creating a masterpiece and it's beautiful.

Have you ever seen a writer at work? They are oblivious to the world around them as their minds come alive in tandem with their bodies, birthing words that fill the lined page. Impressions become reality and a whole realm unfolds in dozens of pages. From the depths of their God-given talent, they are creating a masterpiece and it's beautiful.

Don't insult them. Please don't insult them. Sensitive means they are open to the world around them. It doesn't mean they are anything less than who they are and what they do.

It might mean that when you speak ill of their gift or talent, everyone in the room might laugh, but they will simply smile at you. The kind of smile that will bug you, because it'll stay in the back of your mind for having said far more than they would have taken the time to share.

It might mean you lost a potential friend.

This bothered me today because of what I know I have put into my writing and of what I have given of myself to find the courage to bear that title. I speak it with respect and earnest will. It is not something I throw in other people's faces, not something to constantly brag about and definitely not something I claim as successful by my own merits.

Yes, there are things I could brag about. Yes, if I wanted to throw it in your face, there's quite a bit more than what my bio in the sidebar says. Yes, I could selfishly claim that all I have accomplished have been because of x, y or z.

Yes, I could.

But I don't and I won't.

There are times and places for everything. I am my own worst critic and bragging is the very last thing I would do for my own writing. That's just me though. I know this is part of who I am. I know how it factors into my creative process. I know there are times when I will speak up. There will be times when I must.

I will admit in all honesty that I am short-tempered. Extremely short-tempered. I have automatic responses for everyday situations that frustrate or confound me. If something bothers me, be well assured that I will speak up-and that you will hear me. I struggle on a daily basis to remember to be mindful of what I say when and to whom.

If I were to claim all that I have written was on my own talent and creative brilliance, I would be lying in the worst way possible. There are many things I have written that leave me amazed at God's sheer awesomeness.Too many things. I also find the things written through Him are the hardest of all to write. Kinda makes you think.

For me, it takes all three to make up the true character of a respectable writer. I can speak so strongly about the differences between them, because I've been there--and I'm still there. Art is so drastically different from writing, it's become a new pet peeve. Writing is such an opposite to art that it makes me want to scream when folks lump them together. Writing can be an art. Art can certainly tell a story. But they're two completely different things. The more you know about either, the more you realize just how different they are.

I'll get off my soapbox for now, because there are a few class papers I ought to be writing. (and the rent on that thing is outrageous!) Take care and do remember, please don't insult the writer(s) or the artist(s). They just might write a whole novel on it (or at least a blog post), who knows?

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Hi everyone! I've the pleasure of hosting Friday Fiction this week. To join in the fun, just add your name and link to the Simply Linked Widget below. You don't need a blog to participate, just a story and a place where folks can comment. Feel free to write, read and share! To learn more about this blog meme, visit on facebook.

Author's Ramblings: To all my USA readers, happy holiday weekend. I am looking forward to it as the fall semester has begun and my life flip-flops until I hammer down a solid routine. Due to that, it's prompt fiction again this week. *ducking* I know, I know, but since everyone enjoyed last week's snippet, I thought I'd slip away with it again. ~_^ I'm thrilled that everyone enjoyed Madrisa's story, there's definitely more to her stowed away in my head. Perhaps I'll have a chance to write her out sometime soon. This week features Chimey, a mysterious FMC with issues--such as, she won't stop singing in my head. (which wouldn't be a problem, but it's the theme for that old western show, Rawhide) anyway, enjoy the read and happy weekend!

Tick-Tock : Snapshot : Light Fantasy

Found on Google Images

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

The sound echoed in the empty bedroom. It rattled
along the walls and spilled over at the windows.

Chimey bristled at the whisper of the wind that danced
through her precious bedroom. She chewed on the end of her fat pencil and then
stuck it into her messy braid of hair. “I can hear you, you know!” She glared at the ornate wooden clock hanging
on the wall before her.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

She sighed and crumpled the half-written sheet of
parchment before her. The pointlessness of the act mystified her. A realization
made clear as the magical sheet dissolved to dust in her hands. Picking up the
newly dusted sheet, she blew off the dust to the ground.

In wisps of sparkling gold they fluttered to the
ground, disappearing almost at once. Chimey rose from the desk, replacing the
paper. She walked to the bowl and washbasin at the far end of the room,
snagging her clean shawl from the bed on her way.

Washing her face in slow, deliberate movements,
Chimey straightened, cool water dripping down her neck. She breathed for a
count of five, then reached for the shawl and swabbed her face.

“Windows, open” she murmured.

The bronzed fasteners on the foggy window clicked
open, swinging out into the night air with a faint sparkle of pink-gold.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

Tick-Tick…Tock.

Chimey moved to stand by the window. She stuck her
head through the opening, breathing in the night air in great, big gulps. The
coolness soothed her at once and she withdrew to the room’s warmth when a few
shivers became known.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

“Yes, yes, I know!” She scowled, returning to the
desk and beginning to scribble once more, the half-damp shawl wrapped around
her thin shoulders. In a matter of minutes, she finished the document, folding
it neatly before stamping her seal on the front.

Trembling hands held the official missive for a few
silent moments before she tucked it inside her blouse. This was one message
that required hand-delivery. There was no way she’d let it fall into any other
hands.

Delivering it herself would also allow no room for
error. If the Empress chose to accept her offer, then she’d be right there.

“It’s quite logical, you know.”

Tock-Tick.

Tock-Tick.

“No, I don’t agree.” She swept from the desk to her
closet in a huff. “Stop talking in riddles.”

Tocker-Tick.

Tocker-Tick.

Tick…Tick…Tick.

“Oh be quiet!” Chimey fished out her rich,
fur-collared traveling coat from the musty depths of her wardrobe. From the
stiff sleeves and thick fluffiness that rose up around her face, she took a few
cautious breaths. The wardrobe hadn’t done much for it, but then again, neither
had she.

Her traveling boots awaited to the left of her bed
and her traveling pack appeared shortly afterwards in a poof of pink sparkles. Chimey
grinned. “Thank you, much appreciated.”

She bustled about shoving her feet into boots and
checking the pack for all of her usual reading and writing materials. The
well-stocked result was hefted over one arm. A cursory glance swept over the
room and Chimey finished with a raised eyebrow at the accusing clock.

“Well?”

Tock-tocker-tock!

“That’s not the right answer.”

Tocker-tock!

“I’m well aware of that, but I don’t have a choice.
You do. I would never make you-”

Tick-tock.

Tocker-tick-tocker.

“I know that, but if I’m going to be used, I’d
rather chose who uses me.” She sniffed. “Don’t you think that’s a better way to
look at it?”

Ticker-tocker.

“I know.”

Tocker-ticker.

“I know that too. Look, are you going to stay up
there all night?”

Tick-tock.

“Then I’ll leave you behind.”

Tick-tick-tick-tock.

“That went out the window the moment you said-”

A swirl of pink-golden sparkles guided the clock
from its place on the wall to waist-level before Chimey. It danced about before
the lights grew bright and she closed her eyes. When it faded, she opened her
eyes to stare down at a short, redheaded little boy with accusing green eyes.

He opened his mouth to speak and she clapped a hand
over it.

“I know, I know…tocker-tick. Do you want another
time-out? I don’t have all day here. I’d like to get going as soon as possible
and I really don’t want to leave you behind, you have a habit of cleaning the
wrong things.”

He bit her hand.

She jumped back, wiping the hand on the rich
material of her travel coat. He glared at her. She glared back. He sniffed. She
held the coat open.

He rushed forward, throwing skinny arms around her
waist. She smiled. “You’re adorable—and you’re the best assistant I’ve ever had." She ruffled his curly red hair. "We’ll be off now, okay? Hold on tight.”

In a wisp of golden sparkles, she blew through the
bedroom window. Floating in the air above the castle courtyard, she watched the
guards on duty playing cards by candlelight. Her smile wavered as she thought
of the king and his selfish demands.

Bequeathing her services to the enemy Empress was a
risky move at best, betrayal at least.

While my town dries out of record-setting, epic flooding from Hurricane Irene, let me ask you:What’s your book with weather events? Hurricanes? Tornadoes?
Blizzards? Real? Fiction? Doesn’t matter … weather comes up a lot in
books, so there’s got to be a favorite somewhere, huh?

I'd say Dee Henderson's novel featuring Stephen O'Malley, The Rescuer. There's plenty of weather-related disasters and such throughout her O'Malley series, but I like Stephen's tale best for that. It's got mystery, jewels and my favorite O'Malley as well--Kate!

found on google images FLASH FICTION PROMPT I miss you, Nena. I miss you more than words can say. I miss you more than all tho...

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About

Sara is an Indie Author writing both inspirational Fiction and Faith-filled Fantasy. She is a graduate of the Christian Writer's Guild and holds a B.A. in English from state university. She has written over two-hundred short stories and is published in anthologies, inspirational newsletters and e-zines.